


Flames

by chillychillywilly



Category: Banana Bus Squad
Genre: A lot of Implied shit, Other, Poor brocko, brief tyler appearence, brock has like 3 memories, i wrote this in like 20 mins on a whim, implied brock/tyler but im not tagging it aha, light (?) angst, uh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-21
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-05-26 07:10:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14995535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chillychillywilly/pseuds/chillychillywilly
Summary: Brock has dreams. He's pretty sure they're not his, but then again...For dreams that aren't his, they sure do affect him a lot.





	Flames

**Author's Note:**

> man i wish i knew how to be a serious writer

Brock never liked sleeping.

When Brock sleeps, he dreams. That's not normally an issue. Dreams are good, his doctor said once. Dreams bring you memories of things you've experienced, and some say that dreams give guidance.

The problem isn't that Brock dreams. The problem is that Brock dreams of things he's never seen or heard before. His dreams feel more like memories, except that these memories aren't his at all.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes in the dreams he is a teenager, gripping at a controller and laughing at some game on a screen. He pouts and complains when he is pulled away by his mother, but is easily pacified with a kiss to the cheek and a warm, soothing voice going, _“I love you too, sweetie, now come eat dinner.”_

The boy runs down a hall to sit in a chair across from his mother, table set for three and food already out. Footsteps come down the hall, and then a man walks into the room. The boy and his mother look up, someone cheering happily, only for the dream to end there.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Brock dreams of people. There's faces and voices he feels he should know, and people he thinks he should remember.

These dreams are less clear than the ones about the teenage boy. Everything feels warm and open, and yet… something is off. These guys are older now, older than in the other dreams. College? High school? Brock doesn't know. He hears them laughing, and a voice that vaguely resembles his makes some kind of sarcastic remark.

One person stands out. He's the tallest of the bunch. Though his face is unrecognizable, Brock knows for a fact his eyes are familiar.  His eyes are painfully familiar and they send chills down his spine.

These dreams make him nervous. This _guy,_ tall and blue eyes and unexplainably charming, makes him want to cry.

He wakes up from these dreams wrapped tightly in his blanket, feeling like someone just threw him in a bucket of cold water.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes Brock's dreams are more like nightmares. There's no people or faces just fire. It's all over the walls and on the floor and furniture, with no real escape.

In these dreams, Brock is Brock. There's no way out for Brock in these dreams. All he can do is sit and cry or panic as burning debris traps him and roasts him whole.

Brock's doctor says that this is okay. That this might be where his fear of fire comes from, or that it could be a memory of sorts.

Brock finds that idea crazy. He knows he had amnesia at some point, but that was from him falling off a fourth-story balcony. His doctor said so, so it must be true.

Maybe Brock's just afraid of fire.

  


* * *

 

For some reason, Brock woke up weirdly this morning. He had an arm stretched out, like he had been reaching out for someone to hug.

The first thing to register in his mind was simply _why is my hand so empty?_

Then he remembers he's alone. He's always slept alone like this, why is he so confused? Why does he feel so _lonely?_

Brock hates waking up like this. It's been occurring more and more recently- those moments where he wakes up and feels like he's just a little too alone, or that his bed is just _too_ empty for his liking.

It's confusing. He feels his throat tighten and his eyes water at the odd feeling. Brock forces it away by drinking his coffee, and cringes at the taste. He never liked black coffee, after all.

Brock reminds himself to go buy more sugar and creamer for his coffee.

 

* * *

 

He's walking through the aisles of a grocery store. Half his imaginary list is crossed off, and his near-meltdown from earlier nearly forgotten.

Brock needs sugar, cream, and some kind of ice cream. He's craving something sugary.

Turning down the frozen food aisle, Brock shamelessly marches to a section full of ice cream. He immediately reaches out and grabs one, then another out of habit.

The label on one catches his eye, and he finds himself making a face. _Double Chocolate Chunk?_ He doesn't even like chocolate.

Still… Brock feels weird putting it back, as if he's breaking some kind of unspoken tradition by doing this. He does so regardless and then moves on with his shopping.

Or rather, he tries to.

 

* * *

 

“Oh! I'm so sorry!” Brock scrambles to grab his phone and the wallet of the person he had bumped into. He's thankful neither of them fell over- parking lots are cruel to bare skin- and equally happy that his phone is in good condition.

“It.. It's fine,” comes a quiet, oddly calm voice.

Brock makes the mistake of taking a step back to look up at this person. Looking up grants him the sight of piercing blue eyes and a stone cold face to match. They look so _stupidly_ familiar that Brock wants to scream.

It sends fear spiking up within Brock, and for some reason he swears he can suddenly feel fire eating at his skin because of how hot everything feels. He swallows nervously, holding out the man's wallet.

Brock doesn't trust himself to speak. He's grateful the man takes it without a word. As soon as the wallet is back in the hands of its owner, Brock is walking away to his car.

“W-Wait! Wait!” A hand grabs him roughly by the shoulder, and for a second Brock feels as though he should melt into it. It feels familiar in the worst way possible. “I… Nevermind. You just… you just remind me of someone I used to-”

Brock can't bring himself to look up. If he looks up, he's sure he'll cry or have a panic attack. He finds himself shaking the man's hand off and choking out a small, shaky _“I really have to go”_ and quickly jogging back to his car.

He's not even in the car yet, and his tears are already falling. 

  



End file.
